


Enough Space (Between Us)

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Anal Sex, Baby is an owl, Castiel Topping From the Bottom (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Roommates, Characters Reading Fanfiction, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Gryffindor Castiel (Supernatural), Gryffindor Dean Winchester, M/M, Magic, Magic Lube, Nearly Human Castiel (Supernatural), Play Fighting, Post-Canon, Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Quarantine & Chill (Supernatural), Ravenclaw Sam Winchester, With A Twist, misuse of magic, quarantined
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24741244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: If there’s one thing Dean can’t stand, it’s a spoiled snob with an entitled attitude. Give him anything else—anything at all—be it train car full of sarcastic assholes who don’t know the meaning of the word deodorant, disloyal women with questionable morals, hell, he’ll even take “potentially evil Death Eater” over this. What did Dean ever do to deserve being quarantined indefinitely with Hogwarts’ School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’s number one douchebag, Castiel Novak?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 131
Kudos: 365
Collections: ProfoundBond Exchange: Quarantine & Chill





	Enough Space (Between Us)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meowmeowsamurai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowmeowsamurai/gifts).



> This is my gift to [meowmeowsamurai/tyisadinosaur](https://meowmeowsamurai.tumblr.com/) for the Profound Bond Discord's "Quarantine and Chill" gift Exchange!!  
> Ty, I have to admit, I stalked your Tumblr pretty intensely before landing on this idea, so I REALLY hope you like it!! 
> 
> ...This is not what it looks like at first sight, and that's all I'll say about that. 😂
> 
> Thank you to @coinofstone and @zahlibeth for the editing/alpha assistance<3
> 
> And don't come at me about what house Dean or Cas are in—you can headcanon whatever you want, the Gryffindor setting serves a purpose for this fic, it's not a statement piece, lol. 
> 
> Related but important, this author strongly disavows JKR's transphobic, hateful bullshit and believes the world she created now belongs to the fans. In THIS version of the HP-verse, all are welcome, all are loved and accepted for who they are, not what anyone else tries to define them as. If you or someone you love has been suffering due to the hateful discourse surrounding all this, I see you and I support you. You're valid and you are enough just as you are.

If there’s one thing Dean can’t stand, it’s a spoiled snob with an entitled attitude. Give him anything else— _anything_ at all—be it train car full of sarcastic assholes who don’t know the meaning of the word deodorant, disloyal women with questionable morals, hell, he’ll even take “ _potentially evil Death Eater”_ over _this._ What did Dean ever do to deserve being quarantined indefinitely with Hogwarts’ School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’s number one douchebag, Castiel Novak? 

From the corner of their shared dorm room, Dean yanks the strings of his hoodie more tightly shut around his face and internally fumes. There aren’t even two other dudes in here to distract Dean and help him ignore Novak’s presence completely, like there should be. Both his own best friend Benny and Novak’s stupid, simpering butt-buddy Inias (annoying, but more tolerable than _Novak)_ actually had parents who gave a shit and yanked them out of school just as soon as anyone knew this damn _virus_ was a thing. 

Dean, on the other hand, and likewise his brother Sam—along with a surprising number of other students—had nowhere to go and no one who was able to take them back, so “self-isolating” at Hogwarts it was. Locked in their rooms with no classes, no Quidditch, no trips to Hogsmeade, no _fun_ at all _._ On that note, Dean might actually be losing his mind—he’s intentionally putting _school_ in the same sentence as the word _fun_. 

Quarantine is taking its toll, Dean barely recognizes himself.

Anything must be better than this, even being sick. Dean would be lying if he said he hasn’t weighed the pros and cons of contracting the damn virus against tolerating Novak for one more miserably long day. Secretly, though, Dean thinks it’s ridiculous that the wizarding community is even subject to the same rules and restrictions as the panicking mortal world—surely the hype about there not being a magical cure for this particular virus can’t be true. 

After all, magic is way more powerful than human _biology,_ Dean sees evidence of that all the time. Back when he was a second year, Dean fell off of his broom during a Quidditch match and shattered his wrist. That in and of itself wouldn’t have been _so_ bad, if his fraud of a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher hadn’t jacked up the spell to repair the fracture, resulting in _all_ the bones in Dean’s hand and forearm up and disintegrating completely. Awesome.

Point being, though, the school nurse fed him a potion that regrew every bone perfectly overnight. _Overnight._ Nineteen bones in his hand, eight bones in his wrist, and two in his forearm. Twenty-nine damn bones grown from scratch in less than twelve hours, but Dean’s supposed to believe they can’t stop wizards from kicking it over _one_ itty bitty little virus? Bull-fucking-shit, if you want Dean’s opinion. 

And yet, here they are.

Maybe quarantine wouldn’t be so _awful_ if students could leave their rooms for meals or grounds privileges six feet apart, or if Dean could have _at least_ been stuck weathering it out with Sammy. But Sam is a Ravenclaw and Dean is in Gryffindor, and their teachers and Headmaster had been crystal clear—everyone staying to weather this thing out at the school were to remain in their own Houses. Room assignments were not to be swapped or switched, and anyone found to be violating that commandment would be dealt with “harshly.” 

Now, Dean’s been accused of violating a rule a time or two in his day, but the last thing he wants is to earn a _longer_ stint in this hellhole than the two weeks of mandatory isolation before they can at _least_ start to use the common areas of their respective Houses again. 

And in the meantime, Dean will just have to accept his misery. Twenty-four hours a day stuck in an enclosed space with enchanted locks, so he couldn’t leave if he wanted to, not without breaking those aforementioned rules. His only method of outside communication is by owl, and Dean supposes he should consider himself lucky enough to own one that knows to visit and will bring letters back and forth between him and Sam. 

Exactly three times per day meals appear in the middle of their room, just the way they usually do on the tables of the Great Hall, and Dean doesn’t envy whoever still has to _cook_ and serve them amidst this mess. He supposes— _maybe—_ that Hogwarts’ house elves might be the only ones whose living conditions are more torturous than being trapped alone in a room with Castiel Novak. 

Speaking of which, the guy doesn’t even _talk,_ at least, not since that fistfight they got into the second day they were locked in together. Touching his fingers gingerly to the bruise around his right eye, Dean winces. If he’s not mistaken, Castiel snorts quietly and smirks from his place on his bed across the room. Narrowing his eyes, Dean glares but doesn’t take the bait. Novak has a healing cut on the front of his scalp from where Dean launched a chair at his head, but overall, Dean definitely looks worse, and his ego can’t take losing another round to the guy. 

He shouldn’t even _be_ rooming with Novak, to begin with. He’s _eighteen_ and a seventh year! Seventh years are always allowed to choose their rooming assignments. But with both him and Novak constantly at each other’s throats, bickering and fighting, unable to get along even for the sake of the Quidditch team Novak’s money bought him the Captainship of, McGonagall had finally snapped and intervened. 

When Dean and Novak had arrived at Hogwarts this past fall, they hadn’t been inside the castle ten minutes before McGonagall swooped in to give them an ultimatum—room together and learn to get along, or be kicked off the team. They’d each been allowed to pick one other roommate (hence Benny and Inias’ unwitting inclusion as buffers between them) and—at least publicly—they agreed to try. Privately, they’ve been cohabitating miserably for months while acting cordial in class and at practice, but make no mistake—they’re _no_ closer to being friends than the first day they met. 

And _now—_ trapped like rats (or Hagrid’s magic pet of the week) in this exitless box of a room, Dean’s more resentful of that fact than he ever has been. Fucking _Novak,_ with his money and his fancy, expensive robes, the way he always has the newest model of sport broomstick, even though the one he already owns is still in perfect shape. Fucking _Novak_ and his powerful parents, the way he’s basically guaranteed a spot in the Auror training program no matter what the fuck his OWL scores say about it. Fucking _Novak_ having everything fall directly into his lap, and _never_ having to work for a damn thing a day in his life. 

Why is he even here, anyway?! Shouldn’t he be holed up in one of his father’s holiday homes, complaining about how much it sucks to be waited on hand and foot by servants too poor to be able to afford to quit and stay home, pandemic or no? _Dick._

The cool breeze drifting through their open window does nothing to cool the rage heating Dean’s face, though being stuffed into his hoodie isn’t helping. The more he tries to let it all go, the angrier he gets, blood pressure rising along with his heart rate, unread copy of _The Daily Prophet_ being slowly crumpled to death in Dean’s fist. 

Perched on the windowsill, Dean’s owl, Baby, puffs up her sleek black feathers and hoots irritably, clearly upset that Dean doesn’t appreciate her choice of entertainment material to deliver. “You _know_ I don’t read this shit,” Dean grumbles in her direction, deflating a little when he reaches up to scratch the owl’s head and she coos. “You’re still my best girl, even if you didn’t manage to score me a copy of _Magical Mechanics Monthly_.” 

The noise Castiel makes this time is _definitely_ a snort, and unmistakable as it is, Dean reacts in kind. All of his anger comes rushing back and he jumps to his feet, startling Baby so much that she squawks and flies off into the cloudless blue sky. Dean’s jealous; he’s never wished for a pair of wings more. 

“You got something you wanna say to me, Novak?” Dean snaps, yanking the hood down off of his head so that he can glare at his roommate properly as he stalks closer. The effect is somewhat diminished when the tightness of the strings makes the material snag on his forehead, and Novak outright _laughs_ as Dean furiously shoves it away before folding his arms across his chest. “Fuck you, man,” he says with a scowl. 

Completely unbothered, Novak doesn’t even look up from where he’s smirking down at the textbook laying open in his lap. In a move Dean definitely reads as taunting, he licks his index finger and swipes it across the page to flip it. “From what I hear, that lice-infested flying rat is the only girl you’re able to keep, anyway.” 

That’s a low blow, even for someone Dean knows hates him, referring to the way Lisa Braeden dumped him unceremoniously on their first night back to school after summer break. Apparently, she’d fallen for some Muggle doctor and was “so over” Dean’s Auror aspirations. It’s a convenient lie, and maybe a nicer way of saying Dean was never going to be able to support the kind of lifestyle she wanted to live after graduation, so he can’t even hold it against her.

Novak, though—Dean’s got _no_ problem holding shit against him, and just the reminder of that humiliating moment on what should have been a great night makes his ears burn.

“You—you—” he stutters, totally enraged and unable to decide quickly enough on what insults are best to hurl in Novak’s direction. 

“Articulate as always, I see,” Novak replies, _still_ reading that stupid fucking book and nearly ignoring Dean completely. “It’s good to know your lack of intelligence hasn’t been overstated amongst the faculty.” _Finger lick, infuriating page flip._ “It’s a wonder the Ministry is even letting you submit an application to the Auror program. They usually try to weed out the below-average talent before they can embarrass themselves or get someone killed.” _Page flip._

“Hey—you got no idea what I’m capable of, buddy. I worked my ass off to get where I am. Didn’t have Daddy there to drop a wad of cash when the going got tough or I couldn’t pass Charms the first go-round.” That’s a dig, everyone knows Novak had to repeat Charms back in their third year. It’s gotta hurt, but the guy doesn’t even flinch. 

“Indeed,” Novak replies flatly, eyes still focused on the book. “Both of your parents are dead.” 

Dean sees red. Pure, blinding red rage as he whips his wand from his back pocket and points it in Novak’s direction. It’s only by the _barest_ thread of sanity that he’s able to stop himself from doing something he’ll surely regret. The mention of his parents helps—his mother would be so disappointed to know Dean came this far only to be expelled from school for murdering a fellow student. 

“ _Locomotor!”_ he yells instead, pointing at Novak’s book and flicking his wand towards the ceiling to make the stupid thing levitate. With a snap of his wrist, the book is suddenly careening wildly through the air and smashing into the wall next to the door, hard enough that several pages come loose and go fluttering to the ground.

 _Now_ Novak is looking at him, and he’s furious. Before Dean can react, Novak is up off of his bed with his own wand out, and he’s got the business end trained on Dean. “Expelliarmus!” he chants, feet planted in a fighting stance and eyes narrowed as Dean’s wand is catapulted from his hand in a shower of sparks, skidding across the floor and disappearing underneath Inias’ bed. “I’d think twice,” Novak says, gesturing to his mutilated book. “Before trying me in duel. As for the book, I’d demand you buy me a replacement, but I think we both know that would be pointless. You and Sam wouldn’t be dressed in those ratty, hand-me-down robes if you had a Galleon to spare.” He sneers and shakes his head condescendingly. “Orphan trash.” 

“Yeah?” Dean replies, stepping forward bravely, despite his lack of a weapon. “Say that to my face, asshole.” 

Novak pauses in his trek towards Dean, tipping his head to the side in obvious confusion. “I did,” he replies sincerely and Dean rolls his eyes before reaching out and poking Novak square in the middle of his chest. 

“Like I said before, at least I can claim I worked hard for the life I have. Didn’t need Daddy’s money to buy a place on the Quidditch team or get me a job after graduation. I _earned_ my spot, must suck to not be able to say the same, to know that everyone thinks your whole fuckin’ world is bought and fuckin’ paid for, asshole. And, what? Guess that’s as far as they’ll go for you, huh? All that money and they left you here to rot with the virus and the orphan trash.” Dean tips his chin up smugly as Novak gawks back at him in surprise, withdrawing slightly, which is not what Dean expected at all.

“Is that—” Novak’s face goes through several iterations, his eyebrows furrowing together in a way that if Dean didn’t _hate_ him so goddamn much, he _might_ find— _God help him—_ cute. “That’s what you—what people think?” 

“Uh, duh,” Dean scoffs, raising his arms like that should be completely obvious, and Novak looks genuinely taken aback. Only for a second though, his face quickly hardening into the bitchy expression Dean is _much_ more familiar with seeing on him, and he’s almost relieved when it does. Novak acting human, almost _vulnerable_ even _,_ isn’t something Dean’s prepared for or in any way interested in dealing with. He likes his villains one-dimensional. Hot, but unquestionably unsympathetic. 

“Anyway,” Dean persists, because no one’s ever accused him of having common sense, “You wanna do this? Then let’s go. Put your fuckin’ wand down and fight me like a man, if you think you can.” He raises his fists, bounces a little from foot to foot, and again, Novak looks taken aback, though still bitchy. 

“I don’t want to fight you,” he mumbles, retreating a step back and putting his wand down on his bedside table.

But Dean’s still angry, still fired up, blood pumping wild and hot through his veins and Novak’s insults about his parents fresh in his mind. “Should’ve thought of that before you said shit about my family,” he says, and then he’s rushing forward. Seemingly before either of them knows what’s happening, Dean’s holding Novak up against the wall by his lapels, breathing hard into his face. He draws a fist back to try and rearrange his nose, but Novak takes advantage of the opening and uses the wall as leverage, shoving off and into Dean’s chest _hard._

The move has Dean instantly off balance and stumbling, wobbling backward into the center of the room. Novak keeps coming, shoving Dean to the floor with two hands to the middle of his chest, so Dean grabs his arm, taking Novak down with him. “I don’t want to fight you!” Novak yells as they fall. He recovers quickly, straddling Dean’s hips and pinning both of Dean’s arms above his head to Dean’s disgruntled disgust (and to his horror, budding interest from his dick). 

_Please don’t sit down,_ Dean prays silently as Novak glares at him from above. All Dean can do is stare back, wide-eyed and unable to budge from his grip, no matter how much he pulls and wiggles. _Damn, Novak is stronger than he looks._ Dean supposes he should have expected that, after all, he knows how hard the entire Quidditch team works out, and bought spot or not, Novak is always lifting and sweating right there alongside everyone else. How else would he have gotten those spectacularly Quidditch-toned thighs?

Of course, _that_ ill-timed reminder sends all kinds of imagery flooding through Dean’s mind—images like Novak running in those stupid short shorts he likes so much, the ones that barely fit around his thighs. Lifting weights on the bench next to Dean, his sweaty biceps bulging and blue eyes flashing when he glances Dean’s way. That frustratingly messy dark hair that always looks like he just rolled out of a bed that had someone else in it. And there was that time he dove half-off his broom to catch a wayward Quaffle and his shirt rode up _just_ so—

 _Fuck. Oh, fuck._ This is the _wrong time_ for Dean to have a sudden realization that he wouldn’t mind bending this entitled asshole over nearest surface and—

“Dean?” 

Gulping hard, Dean forces himself to open his eyes, finding Novak still peering down at him quizzically from far fewer inches away than Dean would prefer. And he— _oh no._ He’s sitting back, directly on top of Dean’s traitorous dick, and that certainly explains the raised eyebrow he’s sporting. 

The tension between them sizzles for a prolonged moment where Dean isn’t positive Novak isn’t going to deliver that aborted punch Dean tried to serve him earlier, but then suddenly, there’s a mouth on his and _okay, that’s so much better than fighting._

It’s rough, too, Novak kissing like he’s not sure whether he wants to fuck Dean, or eat him alive and honestly—Dean could care less so long as the guy keeps grinding like that in his lap. “Novak,” he starts, struggling to get a word in edgewise with the way Castiel’s trying to lick down his throat, but the minute he says _that,_ the guy sits bolt upright, taking his awesome mouth with him. Dean _definitely_ does not whine, that would just be embarrassing.

Planting one hand firmly in the middle of Dean’s chest, Novak looks down his nose at him and _oh shit,_ Dean’s never been so turned on by someone looking so angry. “My _name_ is Castiel,” Novak says, “And you should show me some respect.”

Barely resisting the urge to blurt out, “Yes, Sir,” Dean just reaches up and yanks _Castiel_ down by the back of his neck, slamming their mouths together in a way that has him wincing but diving in for more all the same. “Cas,” he mumbles, because he’s still a dick and he _still_ kinda hates the guy, even if his bottom lip tastes _really_ good in Dean’s mouth. 

“What?” Castiel grumbles back impatiently, already working Dean’s belt buckle open and shoving his pants down over his thighs. The _one_ upside to this whole quarantine situation is that they’re both in casual wear—jeans, t-shirts, hoodies, no button downs and ties and robes to work their way through getting rid of. 

“This don’t mean I like you,” Dean says petulantly, as Castiel succeeds in taking Dean’s pants off, shifting immediately to work on losing his own while Dean pulls back just far enough to rip his sweatshirt over his head. As soon as it’s off, Castiel’s back on him, newly naked and as weighty and muscular as Dean imagined on top of him. Cas lowers his head to Dean’s chest and bites down on the sensitive skin beneath his collar bone, harder than is strictly sexy or necessary. 

“Hey,” Dean protests, grabbing Castiel by the hair and yanking him back so that they’re eye-to-eye. The smarmy fuck just grins and shrugs.

“I don’t like you either,” he replies dismissively, and Dean definitely does _not_ feel disappointed by that, he does _not_. It’s not like he didn’t just say the same damn thing to Castiel.

“Whatever,” he mumbles. “You got any lube?” 

“Top or bottom?” is all Castiel replies as he reaches back into the drawer of his night table and produces a bottle, waving it around. A quick glance tells Dean it’s that awesome magical lube, branded with the logo of the adult shop in Knockturn Alley, the one every of-age wizard he knows pretends they don’t know about and don’t frequent. Dean’s all-too familiar with the stuff—hey, it’s been a long few months of just him and his hand and _that_ lube is almost as good as having a partner. 

Still, wand-up-his-ass _Novak_ having a bottle squirreled away is a hell of an interesting surprise. Clearly, Castiel isn’t the blushing virgin Dean assumed him to be, proving that to be the case when he also mutters the incantation to prevent either of them from catching any germs the other might have, so they can skip the condom. “Holy fuck,” Dean remarks. “Where’d you learn to do that? I could never get the—” he waves his hand around between them. “You know, the intonation right.” 

Castiel snorts, and it bothers Dean _slightly_ less than before, but it’s still plenty irksome. “You can barely get “locomotor” right, from the sound of it.” 

“Top,” Dean snaps back, because no way is he going to let Castiel top him verbally _and_ physically. Maybe next time, once he learns that whole… magical condom thing for himself and can prove Castiel wrong. 

“My friend Balthazar taught it to me,” Castiel continues, unbothered. He’s slicking up his own fingers and straddling Dean’s hips again, and it’s then that Dean realizes Castiel’s not the kind of guy who’s just going to let himself be topped, even when he is.

“Shit,” Dean swears, taking in the sight of Castiel opening himself up with great appreciation and his lip pulled between his teeth, because it _really_ is hot. The muscles in Cas’ thighs flex as he rides his own hand and grinds down on Dean in the process, eyes fluttering shut and mouth dropping open while Dean lays stupidly useless beneath him. It’s _such_ a turn-on that Dean has to grab the base of his dick to ensure this whole thing doesn’t become a humiliating story Castiel can use to mock him in perpetuity with all his stupid friends. 

“ _Ung_ ,” Castiel grunts, pulling his fingers out and wiping them on the blanket drooping off the bottom of Benny’s bed, which is gross, but—serves him right for deserting Dean like this. “Balthazar is just a friend,” he adds randomly, like Dean gives a shit. “Bend your knees up, put your feet on the floor.” 

Overwhelmed, Dean complies and Castiel rewards him by grabbing his cock and lowering himself onto it. He moans as he goes, and Dean can’t help reaching for Castiel’s hip with one hand, palming up and over Cas’ abdomen and chest with the other. He stops and circles gently over Cas’ nipple before testing the waters by pinching it. Cas moans, and Dean really digs it.

Above him, Castiel’s eyes open halfway as he seats himself flush against Dean’s pelvis, all kinds of _tight_ that’s _nothing_ like anything Dean ever experienced with Lisa. It’s _really_ fucking good, and his every instinct tells him to move his hips, to fuck Cas as hard and fast as he can, but Cas’ weight on his body keeps him from doing little more than tightening fingers into the handful of ass he grabbed and rocking his hips into the minute space he has between Cas and the floor. 

Like the asshole he is, Castiel recognizes Dean’s plight and just smirks about it, leaning back against Dean’s raised legs and circling his own hips in sequence with what Dean is doing. _That_ actually feels pretty damn good, both the angle and the movement, and Dean has to admit, the guy has some moves. He closes his eyes and relaxes into it, and before he knows it, Castiel is speeding things up, riding Dean like a goddamn cowboy, hands on his pecs and mouth hot against Dean’s own. 

“Harder, Dean,” he demands, as their kisses turn wild and open-mouthed, and Dean _tries,_ but his leverage is shit and he’s really just holding on at this point while Castiel moves up and down on his cock and takes whatever he wants. Not that Dean minds in the least, not when his eyes are rolling back in his head and he’s coming like a damn freight train as Castiel’s fingers dig into his shoulder and his ass clenches when he comes right alongside Dean. 

“Hot damn,” Dean breathes, running a hand over his face and through his sweaty hair as Castiel slides off of his hips and collapses on the floor at his side. “That was—”

“Satisfactory,” Castiel agrees, turning his head so that he’s looking at Dean, his expression earnest and open. And while his wording is stupid, Dean doesn’t hate it as much as he might have before the guy gave him a screaming orgasm. While Dean is still catching his breath, Castiel sits up and retrieves his wand off of the night table before laying back down and pointing it in the general direction of the area between his legs. “Tergeo,” he murmurs, and Dean watches as the mess on Castiel’s thighs sparkles and disappears. He repeats the process with Dean, who looks on with a new level of respect. Cas… well, Cas is kind of awesome.

“Dude,” Dean says in amazement. “That’s fucking _genius._ ” 

This time, when Castiel looks back at him, he smiles, and it’s wide and gummy, transforming his usually sour face into something that makes Dean _slightly_ less determined to keep hating him. They lay quietly together for a minute on the floor, just staring up at the dusty stone ceiling, before Castiel breaks the silence.

“Dean,” he says quietly. “My father didn’t pay my way onto the team. My father doesn’t care for me at all. The only thing he’s concerned with is Magical Law and the Ministry. I haven’t even seen the man in years. Why do you think I’m here, now? I may not...technically be an orphan like you, but—” Here, Castiel pauses but Dean waits him out, nearly holding his breath in surprise at the revelations coming from his roommate’s mouth. “At least your parents protected you until their last. My parents couldn’t care less whether I live or die.” 

If there’s one thing Dean knows, it’s what it feels like to be forgotten. He’ll blame that later for the out of character sappiness, but for now, he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind. He accompanies the crazy admission by grabbing Castiel’s hand where it rests between them and holding on. “Well, I do,” he says simply, and when he turns his head to check Castiel’s response, there’s that smile again. Even Dean has to admit, he can think of a lot worse things than seeing that look on Castiel’s face more often.

***

Closing the lid of Sam’s laptop, Castiel folds his hands on the table and furrows his brow. He’s alone; Sam is long gone from the bunker’s library by now. The younger Winchester high-tailed it out of there shortly after Castiel started to read, even though visiting that website was all Sam’s idea to begin with. Truthfully, Castiel isn’t sure how much the stories helped in answering his questions, but at least he has some fledgling ideas for how best to approach Dean. 

Being human is confusing, far more so than the last time Castiel experienced it, even if he does have the mechanical basics of maintaining a human body down cold these days. Also, this time he wasn’t left homeless and hungry, abandoned by his best friends and being aggressively hunted by a garrison’s worth of angels trying their best kill him (that Castiel knows of, anyway). But for whatever reason, the absence of those things hasn’t made the transition _easier._

Perhaps it’s because fighting and running and weapons and pain are all familiar territory for Castiel, whereas having a home and being welcomed in it are not.

Everything else aside, the award for the most confusing and frustrating “newly human” situation Castiel has had to face thus far goes _without question_ to his increasingly complicated relationship with Dean. The last time he’d been human, “feelings” of any kind were fairly low on Castiel’s priority list of things to worry about, and he was hardly around Dean at all, which made said feelings _much_ easier to ignore. The way Dean had drop-kicked him out of the bunker didn’t go a long way towards nurturing any blossoming emotions Castiel might otherwise have leaned into, either. 

_Feelings_ are complicated, and intensely human. Back then, Castiel just hadn’t had the time nor the energy to ponder and process the ones related to Dean in any meaningful way—or even in a way that mattered at all in the end, since he’d found his grace and “gotten his mojo back,” as Dean liked to say. 

But now, now that his grace is gone and Chuck is vanquished forever, now that the _world_ has changed and the Winchesters have all but hung up their hunting hats (not to mention the current virus situation that has them all quarantined in the bunker until further notice), Castiel has nothing _but_ time. And as such, _now_ he understands. 

Honestly, Castiel’s not fully convinced that he’s better off for it. 

One, because he’s _sure—_ having been privy to Dean’s prayers, his longings, and occasionally, his private thoughts—that Castiel’s _very human_ feelings for him are reciprocated. And yet, Dean doesn’t act on them. 

Having watched humanity evolve over thousands and thousands of years, Castiel’s born witness to nearly every courting and mating ritual birthed into existence from every possible impetus; from emotional to physical to societal. He knows he _could_ just state his desires and feelings to Dean outright, but Castiel isn’t entirely sure that’s what Dean _wants._ At the end of the day, he hasn’t said anything, hasn’t dropped a single clue either way _._

One thing is for certain, though—Castiel couldn’t bear to be on the receiving end of another rejection. Like the time Dean asked him to leave outright, or when they’d fought about Jack and Dean simply hadn’t stopped him from walking away. Castiel can’t go through that again, and definitely not when none of them _can_ leave the bunker, anyway. That would be a living nightmare, to be stuck here, trapped with a Dean that definitively wants nothing to do with him.

Still, Castiel knows Dean’s heart, knows his true feelings. He’s _positive_ that if he can _just_ come up with the proper way to go about giving Dean the “green light,” so to speak, Dean will react favorably, will finally step over that line he’s drawn in the sand and let Castiel in. 

He just has to figure out _how,_ which is what brought him here, to the library.

Determined, Castiel had tried hard to research on his own. Quarantine certainly lent itself to having plenty of time to do so, with all of them locked inside the bunker day in and day out. While Dean’s been mostly holed up in his room watching anime, Castiel’s been in the library, reading romance novels and scouring the internet for modern courting rituals and the like. Unfortunately, the results were both varied and overwhelming, and nothing he found necessarily felt like something _Dean_ would welcome from him. 

In the end, Castiel had turned to Sam, an excellent researcher in his own right, but also arguably one of the foremost authorities on Dean himself. He sat Sam down and confessed his feelings about Dean in a very logical, clinical fashion so as not to make Sam uncomfortable, but Sam wasn’t—if anything, he seemed amused.

As it turned out, Sam had long suspected about Castiel’s feelings for his brother, and he agreed wholly with the idea that Dean reciprocates them. That had been reassuring for Castiel. Sam actually appeared relieved that Castiel was seeking out ways to finally bring the two of them together and was more than happy to help, booting up his laptop and navigating to a particular webpage before handing the computer over.

That is how Castiel came to be reading something called _“Supernatural_ fanfiction”, written by people who were avid consumers of Chuck’s published works featuring the Winchester brothers and— _apparently_ —Castiel, too. 

It had been fascinating for Castiel to learn that the books themselves alluded to the— _Sam’s words_ —“gross sexual tension” between Castiel and Dean, even more shocking that _other_ people found that allusion blatant enough for _them_ to, in turn, write entire novels based on it. 

And _oh,_ how many stories there were! Pages and pages full of all sorts of worlds, ones in which he and Dean are so many different versions of both themselves and any number of magical and fantastical things. Sometimes they’re princes and kings, sometimes Castiel is a painter and Dean is an architect. Often, one of them is ill or injured and the other must care for them. Most often, in the stories outside of the _Supernatural_ universe, Dean is written as a mechanic, a baker, or a fireman. Castiel is often a CEO of some kind, a rich and tactless asshole, or a creature with tentacles. None of those he minds so much, but there do exist a disturbing number of tales where Castiel is a prostitute or drug addict—he’s not as much a fan of those. He _does_ like the ones where Dean still has Castiel’s handprint on his shoulder, be it the original version or perhaps recreated via tattoo.

The fans who pen these stories are both subversive and clever, extremely diverse in their imaginings.

The most incredible thing is, though, that in _all_ of these universes— _every_ single one—Castiel and Dean find their way to each other. Despite all of the various obstacles, the people and situations working hard to keep them apart, they are _relentless_ in their desire, their _need_ to be together. In tale after tale, they declare their love openly, they have sex in positions that (despite watching humanity for eons) Castiel’s never seen and is not convinced are possible. They kiss and they touch, and they _live happily ever after._ All of these different stories, and in every one, Dean somehow feels the same and doesn’t ever turn Castiel down—at least, not in the end.

 _So perhaps that’s the ticket,_ Castiel thinks. The way these fans write, they capture Dean’s voice and his mannerisms impossibly well. That’s the case even in entirely different circumstances to the life _his_ Dean has actually lived. It’s almost as if _they_ know Dean as well as Chuck does, as well as Dean knows himself _,_ maybe better, in some cases. Which is great news for Castiel, because he can _use that._

It’s simple, really. He’ll just recreate a scenario from one of the “fanfictions” where he and Dean get together for the first time. One where Dean responds positively when Castiel reveals his interest. That last one he read, in fact—the one where Dean seemed to be a vaguely less unfortunate version of Harry Potter— _that_ Castiel and Dean didn’t even _like_ each other. “Enemies to lovers,” was the tag, if Castiel recalls correctly, and despite not being an angel anymore, his memory is still quite sharp. 

It’s perfect. If a Dean that hated Castiel could accept his advances using that scenario, surely _his_ Dean, who loves him but refuses to admit it, will too. Thinking back on the events that happened in the story _after_ the Harry Potter Dean didn’t reject that Castiel, the real version of him shivers, though he isn’t cold. His borrowed pair of Dean’s jeans start to get a little tight in the crotch again, and abruptly, he realizes why Sam left the room. 

Pushing back from the table, Castiel decides not to waste any more time in putting his plan into motion. He feels _energized,_ spurred on by the knowledge that all those other Castiels and Deans are paving the way for _them_ to be happy together in _real_ life, in the only universe that matters—maybe the only one that’s left, after everything Chuck pulled _._ But if those other versions of them can do it, surely, he and the real Dean can, too. 

Castiel finds Dean in the bunker’s kitchen, whistling to himself as he finishes washing the dishes leftover from dinner. 

“Hello, Dean,” he says, lurking uncertainly in the doorway, and Dean jumps.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean replies, slapping a soapy hand over his heart and leaving damp spots behind on his white t-shirt. “Haven’t we talked about this? You. Bell. Neck. Look into it.” He turns back to the sink, lifting the last dish out of the water and rinsing it off, setting it carefully on the drying rack before reaching down into the suds to pull the sink’s plug. The water goes gurgling down the drain quite noisily and Castiel swallows, suddenly feeling nervous and unsure. 

_What would the characters from the fanfiction do?_

They certainly wouldn’t walk away. That seems to be the root of his and Dean’s issue; one of them is forever leaving the room before they can talk about anything important. Well, that, and their tendency to be interrupted by impending apocalypses, but Castiel’s fairly certain the first thing is a big part of the problem. 

Castiel stands his ground, watching Dean obliviously wipe out the sink, and thinks.

In the Harry Potter story, Dean had reciprocated Castiel’s kiss after a fight. That was the catalyst for the shift in their previously contentious relationship—a near all-out brawl. He’ll just have to pick a fight with Dean. 

Sucking in a deep breath, Castiel stalks forward and does his best to look angry, picking up a clean plate and squinting down at it. “This plate is still dirty,” he announces. “You are a very poor dishwasher, Dean.” 

But Dean doesn’t take the bait. He just stretches an arm out, plucking the dish from Castiel’s hands while looking at him quizzically _(which is good,_ Castiel thinks, _the fanfiction mentioned quizzical looks),_ and checking it over. 

“The hell are you talking about?” Dean replaces the dish in the drying rack and then reaches out again, placing the back of his damp hand against Castiel’s forehead. “You’re not warm. You feeling alright, buddy? Been out at the grocery store without your mask on lately?” 

Remembering that the fight in the story became physical before it resolved, Castiel decides he needs to get more aggressive. He doesn’t actually want to punch Dean or injure him, though—that would definitely be taking things a shade too far. Castiel just needs to rile him up. So like the Harry Potter version of Dean did to his Castiel, Castiel grabs his Dean by the front of his t-shirt and walks him backward, pushing him roughly against the kitchen wall not once, but twice. 

“Cas, what the—Cas, have you lost your damn mind?!” Dean complains, doing his best to shove Castiel’s hands away but ultimately failing to loosen his grip. Incidentally, the story was also right about that, too—even human, Castiel is somewhat stronger than Dean, which is currently advantageous. 

“I am angry at you,” Castiel says, deciding that Dean is going to need this spelled out for him. “We’re fighting.” 

“I see that,” Dean agrees, nodding slowly in disbelief before wrapping one hand around the fist Castiel still has tangled in his shirt. “Cas, whatever I did to piss you off, you maybe wanna _tell_ me what the hell it is? You don’t gotta—”

“No more talking,” Castiel declares, yanking Dean away from the wall and whirling him around so that Dean loses his balance and teeters slightly, just like in the story. 

Castiel takes advantage of it, knocking Dean off of his feet so that he falls on his ass with a thud and an exasperated, “ _Oof!”_ Now they’re getting somewhere. Following Dean down to the ground, Castiel straddles his hips and puts his hands on Dean’s chest, raising his one eyebrow high, just like he’s supposed to. “Cas!” Dean yelps, hands batting at Castiel’s shoulders and chest and legs kicking out beneath him. “Dude, seriously, talk to me!”

“Hmm,” Castiel says thoughtfully, ignoring Dean’s irritated plea for communication. “I believe this is the part where I would whip my wand out.” 

“What the fu—” 

Dean’s curse is cut off, of course, by Castiel leaning down to kiss him, because Castiel doesn’t actually _have_ a wand to use, and thus has to skip ahead. Unfortunately, he’s become entirely too wrapped up in trying to recreate the story as it ran in his mind, forgetting completely that he was supposed to wait for a particular _physical_ cue from Dean to do _that_. 

Thankfully—and to Castiel’s abject relief—just like in the story, Dean doesn’t do anything but kiss him back. And when Castiel sits up and settles down on Dean’s hips, he feels _something_ poking at the inside of his thigh that causes him to grin.

“It worked,” he blurts out in pleased surprise as Dean blinks up at him in wide-eyed confusion and with a whole other mess of emotions warring on his face. “You’re aroused.” 

“Uh—” 

Castiel pauses, unsure what to do next. He deflates a little, releasing Dean’s shirt completely and sinking back onto his heels, the evidence of his plan working still fully present beneath him. “This doesn’t feel right,” he admits out loud, as Dean struggles to get his elbows underneath him and sit up a little.

“Cas, buddy,” Dean tries, looking beautifully ruffled but also as bereft as Castiel feels. “You lost me like three exits back. I—you just _kissed_ me. Cas, you _kissed_ me! Why? What the fuck is going on here?” 

Castiel freezes.

 _Oh no,_ he thinks. _This is it. He was wrong. He was wrong, Sam was wrong, those writers were wrong, they were_ all _wrong to think that Dean would ever—_

“I mean, listen, not that it wasn’t awesome, but—”

Castiel’s head snaps up and he meets Dean’s eyes, finding his friend’s expression surprisingly open and pleading. “It was awesome?”

Licking his lips, Dean takes a small breath in and then lets it out. “Uh, yeah,” he says, with a little nod. “But Cas, _why?_ What are we fighting about? What…” He trails off, confused and clearly waiting for an answer that Castiel doesn’t have to give. He truly underprepared for this part. 

When Castiel just blinks down at him, drawing a complete and utter blank on what to say, Dean’s eyes narrow critically and he glances around the kitchen. First up at the dishes in the drying rack, then over at the wall Cas had slammed him against, and finally back at Castiel himself. 

“Cas,” he says slowly, carefully. “Did you pick a fight with me to see if it would turn me on?” 

Castiel furrows his brow and looks down at his hands. “Admittedly, it seemed like a better idea in my head. I wanted—I didn’t know how to, how to _tell_ you… And I would explain, but—” He cuts himself off, thinking about how little Dean appreciates those books, the _Supernatural_ fans, _or_ his brother nosing around in his personal life, and chews the inside of his lip. “I’m not sure that the explanation won’t send us into a very real argument,” he finally concludes and Dean holds up a hand, leaning on his other elbow for balance.

“Just let me get this straight, alright?” Dean asks, wiping the hand he has raised over his mouth before returning to pointing at Castiel, and Castiel nods. “You picked a fight with me because you… you _want_ me and didn’t know how to say so? Did I get that right?” 

Reluctantly, Castiel nods, struggling to lift his eyes from the floor and meet Dean’s, suddenly ashamed of himself and worried that he’s done the very thing he was trying his best to avoid—driving Dean away for good. 

But Dean just laughs, reaching up to pull Castiel down by the back of his neck to kiss him, and— _oh, it’s so good._ It’s just as Castiel’s imagined in all of his many, many daydreams, just as he’s read about in every fictional world with every other Dean and Cas whose kisses he’s lived through vicariously.

“Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel can _feel_ Dean’s smile against his own mouth. “In case you’re not sure, this means I want you, too.” Relieved and _so_ damn happy, Castiel threads the fingers of both hands into Dean’s hair and kisses him with abandon. When he leans back to catch his breath, Dean grins up at him, pink-cheeked and beautiful.

“Cas,” he says. “Got any lube?” 

***

**Author's Note:**

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